Little White Lies I started carrying around these little white lies; they live here on my face. Like when I ask you a question and your answer seems ingenuine but I smile at you softly, anyway. Or when I fix you a plate and you give me your thanks, and I kiss the side of your head. While inside I scold the woman who does as she’s told, though I lay with her each night in bed. Or when you don’t come home for three nights in a row and I lay awake cracking my knuckles and toes. I picture her holding your body, unclothed. The thought leaves me paranoid, and I look through your phone. I shouldn’t have done that, now I can’t sleep. My body is filled with anxiety and heat. I…
Kira Rice-Christianson — Six Poems
